When I Love You Isn't Enough
by empress gwenny
Summary: Was even she real? Had he imagined her? The first in a series of many more to come. Final Fantasy IV: The After Years. Two years post game. Palom x Leonora. Third person. Please let me know what you think!


There were bags under her eyes, shady and heavy, like a raccoon's mask. Her hair was a frizzed out mess of poofy, tangled-up waves that fell over her shoulders. Three-day old wrinkles begged to be ironed from the folds of her chiton. Her shoulders slouched. Her arms dangled.

She looked broken. Like her heart lay melted in a puddle on the floor between them. Like she was bleeding somewhere deep-down in a place he couldn't reach. She was always out of reach. She soared on broken wings toward the fires of the Sun, the way a moth flits on wings of noisy, stilted paper.

And, in that moment, he had wanted to drop a heavy heel into the puddle of her heart, stomping out the shattered feelings reflected in it. He wanted to squish them, decimate them. They hurt her, didn't they? Maybe if emotions didn't dictate her every decision, she wouldn't dream impossible dreams, and she wouldn't fly toward the fires of frivolity, and she wouldn't have gotten away from him. He admitted it was an impractical wish: she was full of feelings and warmth and tenderness, and that was why she'd known how to grow flowers and hop with toads and make smiles multiply. Her warmth was felt the world over, in the laughter of orphans who no longer played all by themselves; in the raspy chatter of the sick who had lived to see the stars fade into another sunrise; in the hush-hush babel of elderly gossips who needed an ear in which to drop the secrets of their youth. She gave out warmth; she received vulnerable, delicate, unquestioned trust. And life used it to sent fissures across her heart, where most _she_ was vulnerable, threatening to split wounds into halves, then quarters, promising a typhoon of tears that could not quench the thirst of pain. Tender hearts love freely and bleed freely. Was the pain really worth the love?

Maybe. If he could follow her.

It was all a tangled mess. He didn't claim to understand it. He knew how feelings worked, how they could make people feel as tall as a mountain or as high as a shroom. He'd felt the anger and passion of Fire, the wanderlust and curiosity of Wind, the sorrow and solitude of Water. Some part of him begged to differ, told him he understood wholeheartedly the pursuit of the futile, because ambitions bigger than the self were worth pursuing at all costs, and that the human spirit could carve progress and legend from the futile. After all, he had pursued Tellah's shadow for years, lusting for the breath-taking power of knowledge, a force he wished to clench in his fist and trap in his lungs ever since he was five years old. Power brought prestige, brought honor, brought respect. Oh, how he, prodigy of the Elements, hero-child in the War, the greatest black mage in all of Mysidia, _deserved_ respect!

But the days of chasing ghosts were over; he had grown up to become Lord Elder, and he had made room in his life for other soul-consuming dreams. Love, for instance, given the shape of a girl woven of dreams and stardust. For her, he felt the aching, intoxicating, breath-stealing throb of love in his heart, pounding like the drums of a carnival dance or the explosion of Fabulese fireworks. Oh, how he'd _felt_ it, that Thundara-rush, that Fira-heat! 'Only for her, only for _her_!' his soul roared. She was a shy violet who blushed prettier than the rosy fingers of Dawn. She was an everyone-lover who lent an ear to the wounded and woefully misunderstood. She wore forget-me-nots in her hair and carried magic secrets in her eyes. She laughed sweeter than silver bells and danced like a butterfly on a breeze. The entire world would-could-should have been captivated by her charms. Utterly. Unquestioningly.

They'd grown up together, two orphans living in the shadows of the war. She was friends with Porom, distantly, but it was _her_ , it was _Leah_ who had invited him to chase crickets, and it was her, it was Leah who had baked him the (slightly crispy-burnt) bunny-eared cookies. She had listened to him when he had gotten into fights and she had understood where the other children hadn't. That was the best part about two-years-older kids, even if they could be a little stand-offish (sometimes). Really, where had the years gone? Sure, the villagers had called her a weird loner (sometimes), and, yeah, the other children had called her a downer... but those were the demons of grief casting shadows over her spirit! And who could know grief better than another orphan who had mutually-also lost both a mother and a father? Besides, the villagers had, for years, emphasized his mischief over his ability, and, altogether, overlooked his worth. The villagers-and all people-needed proof of worthiness, for they could not observe and ascertain what was not yet concretely apparent. So what stock could he put in their shallow words?

Pal and Leah, to the end. They'd been friends for years _,_ had made promises to each other to keep their secrets and tell each other everything, _always_. Until that one day she disappeared. It happened sometimes. Life was strange like that. Unexplainable. The winds had carried her off, told her Mysidia was no longer her home. Or so he assumed. He'd never heard from her, not once, not at all, during those eight, long years. No messengers. No letters. His closest friend, gone on the whim of a wind. Sixteen was a whimsical age. Fickle, like a whispering wind. Untrustably compelling. It had been better, easier, to forget about her, to make new friends. The Great and Sagely do not let the petty baggage of hurt feelings weigh them down. Life was supposed to Carry On. And how was he supposed to know she'd felt so estranged in Mysidia as to leave it behind? And how could she feel as lonely and unloved as she claimed to feel, when he was friends with her, and Porom, too, was her friend, distantly?

But she then she'd said it.

"I don't think you love me." Her voice drifted into the air, soft and small, almost a whisper. Her eyes met his. Tears sat on her lashes. "I don't think you hear me, either. I don't feel heard."

He felt lonely. Strange, yet predictable. It wasn't new. Relationships were not supposed to make people feel lonely, were they? But for months, he'd felt an ache. Each time she uttered an, 'I love you,' a voice inside him had asked, 'Do you love me the most?' He never dared to let her hear this question, for he knew all too well the answer. She loved the entire world. She loved every little detail of the cosmos for its unique, singular beauty. People, too, were each unique. No one could be Palom Tuma except Palom himself. It didn't answer the question, but at the same time, it did. She didn't bother with scales. Never mind that they existed, and everyone had preferences, and everyone measured who they should love, and how, and how much. That was just the Way of Things, and he was a part of the way. She should've known that. She pretended she didn't.

"I don't feel heard either," he announced, or tried to, in a voice louder than a whisper but not by much. His heart twisted itself in knots, hard and cold, like a rock in his chest. He cleared his throat, clenching fists behind his back. She didn't have to see the pain. She didn't deserve it. He Carried On. "And I don't feel loved by you."

The question, imperceptible yet hanging thick in the air like a mote of dust, was _why_. What had obliterated their love so utterly and completely, that it left her with raccoon eyes and shoulders slouching as if they had carried mountains? How, every single time she stepped into his office, since the day she had elected to graduate, did the distance between them come to gape so widely, like the open mouth of an abyss? Why, if she loved him and he loved her, could they not make themselves feel the raging fires of their great Love?

Hard to feel loved by a person who was never there to say it. Sure, he himself was always busy, but that could not be avoided: he was Lord Elder, and he couldn't leave Porom high and dry for more than a week. It gave him no time, no flexibility, no freedom with which to see her. So why couldn't she be more flexible, as a citizen of the world who proclaimed herself free from the shackles of nations and societies, as a scholar who criticized the conventions of ticking tyrannical time, as a woman to have declared her love of him more than that of the Moon for the Earth? She should compromise; she had the infinite room to juggle interests; and that was the life of a vagabond, wasn't it?

"I'm… I'm sorry." She cast her gaze away and twiddled her fingers. "I've been trying-I really have! I've wanted this to work. You have no idea what this means to me..."

"You're right. I don't." _I don't understand anything you do anymore._ His jaw locked. His eyes followed hers as they explored the tiles in the floor.

"I'm sorry." She drew her arms around herself. "Is it the trust thing? I thought I had been getting better at it. I mean, I've been trying to talk more-"

"No. It's… You're never _here_ , Leonora."

"Oh. Well. Yes, I'm... always on the road." A pause. Her fingers drummed her chin anxiously. "I'll stay back in Mysidia longer next time. I've missed you deeply." She'd often said she hated this place, but _he_ lived here. Could it be so intolerable if he lived here? He watched as she glanced up, his fingers tingling to entwine with hers that picked at her lower lip. "Er, I can't do it this time. I'll actually have to go sooner than I thought. I've gotten a message from my patient who lives in Damcyan, far, far away..."

Far, far away.

Again.

"Can I ask you something?" He wasn't sure where he was going with this. She'd often said she wanted to know his feelings. No sense in hiding them, right? A fist unclenched, his hand falling to his side. "Which is more important? That patient or your relationships here in Mysidia?"

She paused, swallowed, and looked to her feet. Her gaze darted between the tiles on the floor to his stalk-still feet to the brass legs of his desk. "I don't like comparing them. I-I don't see them the same way, but-but I see what you mean. I can't exactly cultivate my relationships with people who are supposed to be my home and family if I'm always away, looking after patients. I'm sorry…"

"And I've been a jerk, too." He could admit to that. She had admitted to being irrationally uncompromising, hadn't she? Implicitly. His heart ached as his gaze followed the twitching of her toes. His voice dwindled to something small and soft. "I've been so busy at the Hall of Prayers. But your letters have been important to me, Leah."

She looked up. Hope twinkled in her eyes. Her smile was small and faint-an ambiguous smile, one he figured to either be discrete or coy. "And your letters back have been important to me, too, Palom." She began to whisper, but the words wavered like she was desperate. Desperately in Love? "I've read them over and over before going to bed. I count the stars like we used to when we were kids. I dream about us when I'm asleep. I've missed you terribly."

He watched her glance away and took her gingerly into his arms. Her hair smelled vaguely flowery, like violets maybe. Her eyes burned with the hunger for love. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I've missed you too, Leah."

The way she leaned her head on his chest stole his breath. Maybe things could work. She was, in fact, listening better than before. She remembered their dreams even when he was away. At least, she _said_ she remembered. If she had not squeezed him so tight with her plushy arms, if she had not written to him every other week, he might not have believed it. Her efforts had definitely increased a little, yes; and her hair fell like cascades of white gold down her back. He stroked the cloudy blonde locks, his fingers smoothing where the frizz had been its thickest.

"Palom?"

"Hm?"

"I love you." A small, sweet voice. Still quivering. Faint and soft and distant, like a breeze.

He smiled, burying his nose in her hair. "I love you, too."

And they were silent. And the anger gnawing at his chest started to ebb away, back to the fiery pits from which it had been conceived. She was with him in the moment. She would stay back for at least another week. Maybe she hadn't said so, but he knew somewhere, in his heart. That reluctant look in her eyes- she had always wanted to stay, really.

She was just a lonely soul. He could see it in her eyes, right there, as her gaze met his. Bags clung to her eyes like shadows to feet. Her shoulders still slouched; her smile had grown even smaller. The blue star-fires that once danced in her irises had dwindled to cold candlelight. They were as pale as a frozen pond, cracks splitting the surface where the ice was thin. Lonely people needed a little time to warm up; she was smiling, wasn't she? A faint smile. A coy smile.

"Things have been really busy at the Hall of Prayers," he decided to say. "Lots of complaints lately. It's all civil court stuff. Some of it's big stuff like land disputes, some of it's really small stuff like marriage misunderstandings. You see a lot of the same people, and you learn their names. Mysidia's not as big as I used to think it was, you know? I feel like I know everyone by face, at least…"

"That's impressive," she said evenly. "Auntie Buhjah told me that Lord Jawhar, that Damcyani merchant? Is going to sell Iskandariya Island to a group of fisherman. I told her not to hold her breath, but it'd be great for relations between our nations, don't you think? It's been disputed territory for centuries, and you could probably negotiate with him."

"Buhjah is your neighbor, right?" He tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "And, yeah, that's exactly what's happening. It's been busy because of that, but it's really engaging work. Almost makes up for not being able to leave Mysidia with you. I'll arrange for that soon, but I can't leave while the island we're dealing with this dispute. It might take a while to resolve, you know? Centuries. That's why I'm glad you're staying back for a while longer."

Her smile faded. Her eyes lowered and followed the stripes of his scarf. He wondered idly if she was counting them. "Yeah, she is. And I'm sure things will sort themselves out soon. Maybe sooner than you think. And then you'll be able to go off with me, on the road, some time… Maybe you'll see my patients with me, too…"

"It'll take six months." He had calculated. "Maybe more if things stay this busy, but we'll sort everything out. Don't worry about your patients, they can wait a few months. You're not bound by contract, Leah. You have a life of your own."

She looked to his shoulder and swallowed. If she was trying to smile, he couldn't tell. Her lips were twisted up. Had she not slept well last night?

"Why don't you go home and rest instead?" he said. "I'll catch up to you in two or three hours. I've got Mash'al working on some paperwork for me, and then I've got a meeting at two with a man who wants some old documents of his…"

She sighed and shook her head. "Palom, I… I can't."

He looked down at her, an eyebrow raised. "It's down the street. Not far from here. But you can rest in my chair if you'd rather not walk in the sun. If you're afraid of heatstroke, I mean, but I think the weather is walkable, honestly."

"No, I…" Tears welled up in her eyes. "I don't know if I can do this anymore."

"What?"

"It-It hurts." She stepped away. His arms went numb, but he drew them behind his back casually. Coolly. She took a sharp inhale, rubbing her eyes. "I'm so-I'm so tired. You don't… ask. You don't _listen_. I feel so- I feel-" A sob. She began to tremble and drew her arms around herself. Tears broke from her eyelashes and streamed down her cheeks. "I feel so _alone_. I can't do this. It hurts so much, to- to talk, to- to not be listened to, to-"

"Leonora-"

"No." Inhale, exhale. She looked at him sharply. He felt a spark of frigid winter's breath skip down his spine. "I cannot subject myself to this anymore. You always do this, Palom. You don't listen. You don't ask. You assume."

Ask what? What was she talking about? He'd heard every word that she said, as she said it, talked to her, and, surely, she had heard his voice, for she had replied-

"I deserve better than this. I deserve to be noticed, to be asked after in return." Her lip quivered. She sniffed. Her fists clenched at her sides. "Sometimes, you feel like home. When you give me an inch. When you hold me and tell me you miss me."

"Of course I miss you," he said. "I love you, Leonora. I want you here."

Her fists moved to her bosom, fingers twitching open as though they wanted to reach out to him. It took every ounce of him to keep his at his sides. Her countenanced stiffened, dark with desperation, weak with pain, rigid with fear. "I know what you want. But do you know what I want?"

It was a pointed question, sharp and shiny, like the edge of a dagger to his throat. Still, he answered, as calmly as he could: "You don't want to be alone anymore. So you should stay in Mysidia for a bit. We've talked about this."

She gasped and took a step back. A hand went to her mouth. "This can't be home, where I am barely understood. How can _this_ be home? Do you even love me? Do you really?"

He could not feel the breath in his lungs. Her eyes widened with silent accusations. Doubts, trepidations. A knot grew in his throat. How could she ask these questions? Had he not held her, there and then? Had he not told her to go home, to rest her body, for her own benefit? Had he not made the compromise with her, for her to stay in Mysidia longer, where she would be happy? Where was she flitting off to this time? Her accusations twisted like knives in his breast. He gritted his teeth.

"Leonora," he said slowly, "you're not making any sense. Where is this coming from?"

"I have to leave Mysidia by the end of the week. I have not changed my mind. And you decided I would stay for a few months? And you decided it was not worth asking me how I must feel, but instead decided that if I am quiet and stand-offish, I am simply exhausted? That I agree, without question, what you should suppose for me?"

She'd never had this problem before. She'd always smile something small, nod, and Carry On the conversation. She had always followed through with her promises to him. Yet, out of nowhere, he had begun to feel their relationship crumble. Sometimes, she looked tired; he'd always known she was sick with loneliness. Didn't she leave, out of nowhere, and run to Troia for eight, long years? _He_ had never felt lonely in Mysidia, where although the people did not know the Great and Sagely when they saw it, they certainly knew how to Love. And she had always needed a little help in that department, especially when the loneliness consumed her.

Like it had begun to in this very moment.

"You didn't say anything," he said softly.

"You didn't ask," she hissed. "You never ask. Don't I ask after you? Why do you seldom ask after me? Why is it that every conversation, no matter how it begins, must inevitably center around you? What room is there for me in this relationship? Am I only here to parrot my confessions of love to you, over and over? To extol your virtues whenever you should so like to hear them? Am I your wind-up doll, Palom?"

" _Leonora_." He wanted to pause to take a deep breath. Instead, he glared and ground his teeth. "You've got a responsibility to tell me when shit goes wrong. You can't tell me I'm ignoring you-"

"You don't _understand_ me," she corrected. "I have told you. I _have_! You just don't understand, and you seldom have! I don't understand how to get through to you anymore! Is it so hard to worry about me, even an inch?"

"I worry about you every damn day you aren't here!"

"And when I'm here, you don't act like it! Not even a little! Do you really miss me? You come to my house- and talk about you! I express something's wrong, and-and-and-" She slammed a hand on his desk. "All you worry about is how _you_ feel! How uncomfortable _you_ are! Maybe that works for some women, but-" She shook her head. "-it doesn't work for me. It doesn't work at all! I-I-I want to be _noticed_ , Palom… I don't even need to be _loved_ …!"

She burst into a fit of sobs. He stood dumbstruck, his mind numb with thoughts that refused to speak. She was right about one thing: he didn't understand. The more she spoke, the more confused he grew. She had always seemed just fine. She had always been a little lonely, but that was her personality, that she was a little sick with it… His body began to ache, and even letting out a little sigh made him feel pins and needles in his lungs.

"I am unlovable," she concluded, rubbing circles in her eyelid. "The man who claims to love me most on this Earth cannot even show a little concern for me. The man who shared his childhood with me, shared his secrets and hopes and dreams with me. That man cannot understand me! That man does not even deign to notice…" She sobbed and wrapped her arms around herself. "... little me. Am I so unfortunate? Or am I simply greedy, that I long for what I do not deserve?"

"If you stayed in Mysidia, you would feel it," he said clumsily. He didn't know what else to say. "You're always on the road, away from me."

"Palom…" She shook her head. "Palom, I can't do this anymore. It hurts too much. You still don't get it. I've spelled it all out and you still don't get it. This isn't going to work."

"We've just got to talk through it, Leah."

"I'm… tired, Palom." She began slowly toward the door. He wanted to step in front of her, get between her and the door. His feet rooted themselves in the place he stood. She stood in the doorway, leaning on her hand that held the knob. "I'm sorry. I can't. Not anymore."

"You can't just leave," he growled. "We should be talking through this."

Leonora sighed. "I've been talking. You haven't been listening, Palom. I'm… I can't…"

She'd been talking. _She'd_ been talking?

When had she ever even said a _word_?

When had she said anything about being dead set on leaving? About how she felt lonely, and not tired? About the fact that he didn't understand?

And how long had she been hiding this? And how long had she expected him to magically know what was on her mind? And how long had she decided that it was not worth trying to communicate with him, where a little conversation would go a long way?

How long, exactly, had she decided _he_ was _unworthy_?

"If you walk out that door," he said slowly, "I will _never_ take you back. I'm tired, too, Leonora. I'm tired of you walking out on me."

There was a clink. She had turned the knob and opened the door. Her lips twitched up into a faint, quivering smile. Her voice was soft and small. "Then maybe, just for a change, you should chase after me."

But he was weary. Exhausted. And he deserved to rest.

And, as she walked out the door, a whisper fell upon his mind, audible under the cacophony of the thought-numbing hiss of his anger, but just barely: _And maybe she deserves it, too._


End file.
